Idle Hands
by AmethystB
Summary: Idle hands are the devil's playthings. Faith, in her quest to keep herself busy and to ease her restlessness. Set through Season 3, post-"Enemies".


**Title: **Idle Hands**  
****Author: **Amethyst Blizzard**  
****Rating: **T, or PG-13 – mentions of killing, drinking, and sex.**  
****Disclaimer: **Don't own it, Joss is boss.**  
****Summary: **Faith, in her quest to keep herself busy and to ease her restlessness. Set through Season 3, post-"Enemies".

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Idle hands are the devil's playthings, she used to say to me, right before she would grasp the bottle, suck it down until it was all gone, and then she was all gone.

And now I am all gone.

The restlessness crawls inside of my skin, boils my blood, and I feel it pinch every piece of me from the inside out until I wring my hands and breathe through my mouth, loud and heavy gulps of air.

I need to do something.

The apartment is cold and dark, musty but still smells better than home. I shrug off my jacket, leather squelching intermittingly at the movement, and am left wearing a black tank. The bag sits still, waiting for me, and I draw my arm back, tight, and release it with all the energy I have. The bag swings violently back, and then twirls around as it absorbs my angry energy. I punch again, again and again, harder and faster, control slipping as I let the rage consume me. It's easy, to just let go, let it wash over and burn through and through. I don't feel it when the hard skin over my knuckles splits and the wounds start to bleed.

I leave the apartment, still restless, looking for a fight, looking for a kill. The cemeteries are always the best bet to find something to kill, but I don't feel like a confrontation with her tonight, so I avoid the graveyards, instead finding an out-of-the-way park, with swings and slides and a sandpit.

There's a group of kids, my age probably, curled around in a circle, cigarette smoke blanketing all five of them. They sit around the swings, bottles of beer empty and lying on the ground, a single bottle of JD sitting dead in the centre of them. They laugh, they talk, they smoke, they drink. Two girls, three guys.

I stalk in the shadows, hiding behind the trees and bushes, looking at them. I feel the familiar creep, the pinching on my skin, and I walk away.

A demon is doing a terrible job of stalking me, its large and heavy feet stepping over branches and leaves, snapping and crunching them. I stop walking, stamp a frustrated foot into the dirt, and sigh loudly.

"Dead and dumb, just the way I like 'em."

Without turning, I swing a violent arm, collecting the demon's head, pulling it around and into me, and once I turn to face it, I claw my fingers through its flesh, digging in where I can, scratching the scales, bleeding it dry. I sneer at it, a twitch of my lips, the edge of my nose turning upwards, and I crush my elbow deep into its face, a yelp escaping its large mouth. It draws back, and I let it go from my grip.

"Slayer," it snarls.

"That's right," I exclaim back to it, voice loud and full of sarcasm, "the one and only."

It stares at me, sizes me up, then jumps forward, wrapping its arms around me and dragging me to the dirt. I grunt when I land, its force crushing me, and I find my hands and tear at its face again, scratching deeper. I lean into it, gaining control, and with my hands firmly around its head, I snap its neck. It falls limp, onto me, into me, and I shove it off, rolling over and standing up.

I look at the corpse, and smile. Its dead, but I'm still restless.

Circling back, I walk into the entrance of the park, find the group of youths, and sit down with them without an invitation. There's dirt on my clothes, in my hair, deep in the beds of my nails, but they don't care; they're the same as me.

I catch the eye of one guy, good looking and blond, and he smiles at me, a hungry smile, lust in his eyes. I drink from the bottle of Jack, a couple of sips, and he walks around to me, sits to the side of me, talks to me. He probably tells me his name, but I don't care to absorb it, I don't listen to him. He takes the bottle from me, drinks it himself, then asks if I want to go somewhere.

He stands up, offers a hand to me, but I don't take it as I unfold my legs and pull myself up. We walk a little distance, walk into the shadows, and his hands are on me, through my clothes, touching my hair, my face.

My back is against a wooden fence, my hands are touching him, and we're moving together. I don't look at him, I don't find his eyes in the darkness, instead I stare over his shoulder, I stare at nothing.

My hands are in his hair, he smells of pine and whiskey.

It's over fast, probably a little too fast, and the feeling is gone. I go back to being restless, my hands free of him, and my skin crawls. He walks back to his friends, I walk the other way.

I pass a cemetery, but I don't see anyone there.

As I walk a little further, I see the mansion before me, and it's lit dimly at the window. I wonder if they are in there, making love, falling asleep in each other's arms.

I walk back to the apartment, throw my clothes off, step into the shower and let the cold water wash over me. I run my hands through my hair, cleaning it. There's a bar of soap, and I almost use it all up.

Still restless when I fall into bed, I fold my arms behind my head and stare up at the ceiling in the darkness. I am not tired, but I know eventually I will fall asleep, if I just stare in the dark and run my fingers through my hair, my hands bruised and sore and bleeding, but not keeping still, never idle.

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**A/N: **I love writing for Faith, she's so chaotic. This was probably one of the fastest things I've ever written, there was just something about it that I needed to get out, and it was fun. Reviews are always appreciated :)


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